


Requiem

by lyricalsoul



Series: Hiatus [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Watson is sinking fast, repost of old stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is gone. Watson grieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Minor character death here.

They blame me.

Though I didn't cause her illness, I may as well have, given the way I treated her. No one has offered a word of consolation to me, nor was I invited to say any words.

It is just as well. Given my state of mind, god only knows what bitter words might escape my lips.

In the two years after Holmes' death, I was a terrible husband to Mary. Not that things were any different before, but before Holmes died, I was at least loving and warm toward her. Once I returned from Reichenbach, I embraced my solitary life, and became unbearable to live with. I was rarely home, barely sober when I was, and unpleasant to be around, giving Mary no choice but to leave me. We reconciled twice, but I knew it was doomed to fail. I didn't love her any more, and she most certainly had given up on me after she found the letters Holmes left for me. He'd written them before our trip, and asked Mrs. Hudson to give them to me should anything happen to him.

Damn him. It only took one reading of the first letter for her to pack her belongings and leave me with the "ghost of my dead lover." It didn't matter to her that I'd had no knowledge of Holmes' feelings until four days before he died. She knew he wielded power over me, and would have definitely used it to destroy our marriage. I acknowledged in my heart that she was right, and did not fight for her to stay.

Mrs. Forrester welcomed her with open arms. Mary's tears were dried, and she moved on with her life, leaving behind her drunkard of a husband, and his sordid secrets. I gave her the bulk of my savings, and closed myself off from that portion of my life.

Because I had been consumed with my own misery, I didn't know she was ill until it was too late. By the time Mrs. Forrester deigned to inform me that Mary was in the final stages of diphtheria, I could only sit at her bedside and hold her hand. She did not recognise me, nor did she acknowledge my presence in any way, but I did not let that stop me from apologising for the wrongs I'd committed and begging her to forgive me as she slipped away to her eternal reward.

She was a beautiful woman, and certainly a gift from above that I foolishly squandered while wallowing in self-pity and bitterness. She deserved better, and I can blame no one other than myself for not cherishing and loving her. But, even in her death, and as horrible and guilty as I feel, I do wish Holmes was here by my side to bear me up during this sad time. Though he hasn't the most affectionate man, he had an uncanny knack for uttering the perfect bon mot for any situation. I cough around the tide of emotion that swells in my soul at the memories that come flooding back at that thought.

I gently place a spray of roses on her casket, pointedly ignoring the harsh stares of the other mourners. "Rest in peace, my dear," I whisper, my head bowed in respect. I wish Mycroft had allowed some type of memorial for Holmes. Then I would have at least had some closure. A tear rolls down my face, and I brush it away. I do not know which of them I am crying for, but now that they are both gone, it hardly matters.

I hope Mary found it in her heart to forgive me.

I will never forgive myself.

Or Holmes.


End file.
